More Than Addiction
by Illusionary Ennui
Summary: No one knows, 'tis but a secret. Only between a mage and her templar can there be peace, lyrium and magic their bond.
1. Unknown Knowns

**More than Addiction**

No one knows, 'tis but a secret. Only between a mage and her templar can there be peace, lyrium and magic their bond. Cullen x F!Hawke

* * *

><p><em>This fan fiction might contain spoilers, canon and also non-canon endeavours and history. In response to a prompt, Knight Captain Cullen is no longer satisfied with just lyrium.<em>

* * *

><p>Author: Illusionary Ennui<p>

Disclaimer: If it's not in the Dragon Age games, codex entries, or the wiki, it's mine. All else, hail to Bioware.

Chapter Word Count: 1,543 (so far)

Chapter Rating: M/E

Chapter Warnings: Angst, Drama, NSFW.

Beta: Lywinis

Edited: 08.22.2011 - Minor editing...

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><p><strong>Part I: Unknown Knowns<strong>

_For sanity's sake_

_We seek forbidden wiles_

_Cannot surrender_

Glass shattered on the cold stone tile, the vial's contents emptied. Shaking on the edge of his simple bed, Knight-Captain Cullen clenched his fists in anger. Lyrium teased him with its power, a weakening poison most damning but necessary as it burned like icy fire in his veins. The need consumed him, craved it like starving man would a crumb of bread. Far too long under its influence, too deep in the addiction. It would never be enough, not now. As his world teamed with arduous conflict, Meredith's madness growing more evident with each passing day, Cullen knew he would need all the strength he could muster. 'Twas only a matter of time before Orsino broke under the pressure, he thought as he stood to pace, careful to step around the shattered pieces of glass. No, it could never be enough.

* * *

><p>The dusty tome fell back onto his desk with a resounding thud. Cullen pursed his lips in concentration even as a vibrant blush crept up his neck to his cheeks. Possessed of such a secret, he risked much; however, such a secret could very well provide him with the edge he required in light of the building tension between the templars and the mages.<p>

But this could not be right, could it?

His head throbbed with the prospects and the guilty fear. Of course it would be something that caused him trepidation and confusion. The Maker taunted him for his pride but Andraste help him, he begged for forgiveness. Wiping his palms on the elongated bases of his templar garb, slick with the sweat of his apprehension of the truth, he clawed at his mind to goad himself into action. In that moment, the Knight Captain decided to never again prove himself weak. That mistake nearly cost him his life and that of many innocents. But, thanks to the Warden Commander, Ferelden's Queen, he found hope and the chance for atonement.

Nevertheless, this solution reigned as something else, something alien and forbidden to him.

All of his life spent among the templar ranks, his superiors barred and shamed the mages before him and his fellows. Dangerous. Unworthy. The world's tainted stock despite their usefulness. Matched with a templar, their poison infected their righteousness. Yet, though many strayed onto to darker paths, many existed in timid kindness. Inside his mind, he questioned his purpose. He questioned the truths he held as constant alongside the isolation he felt in the wake of his obligations, to protect and serve without ceasing. From the book's time-worn pages, those truths changed and he developed, of his own accord, an unspoiled view of the relationship between templars and mages, seeing it in a new, captivating light. Unbidden, his thoughts then wound around _her_...

Cullen berated himself for the rampant lust that scorched him, that set his blood afire like the lyrium. He groaned when a wayward hand sought to allay his unrequited need. The apostate - the Champion, he corrected - entranced him, the gentle woman who denied the demons and the blood magic that seemed to plague many of the mages of Kirkwall. Intelligent and graceful despite her upbringing and form, he dared not deny the prospect, regardless of his duty. Even when she spoke against the tyranny of his Order, he listened. He gave her that liberty, wanting to believe her impassioned words for a better life for them, mages and templars alike. So naïve, yet so sure – and a mage no less.

Spent, he doubled over in deliberation, lacing his fingers as he endeavoured to calm his turmoil, heedless of his soiled state.

Perhaps she believed as he did in the looming threat posed by the dissention between the Knight Commander and the First Enchanter. Unattended, the rift may well tear Kirkwall, their newfound home, apart. However, would she even be willing to offer her aid to an enamoured stranger, let alone one so hesitant and ashamed, raw but eager? Sucking in a deep, barely comforting breath, Cullen channelled his anxiety and screwed his courage to the sticking place - his weak will served him no better in the past. Little time remained to dally over the particulars. He only prayed that his unsteady bravery lasted, the task before him daunting.

* * *

><p>Steel bit into the warped planks of the ferry as the Knight-Captain wrestled with the waves of nausea roiling in his belly. In all his years as a templar, his trips beyond the Circle were few and far between. To this day, Cullen still lamented the only means of travel to and from the towers and his gauntleted fingers sank deeper into the wood. Curse the man who decided to build all Circles in such remoteness that separated them all by unpleasant waters.<p>

Cullen tightened his cloak against the cool evening breeze that swept across the bow of the slow barge. Sunlight's last rays drew long shadows over the city's ramparts on their approach, the clouds of an oncoming storm raced towards Kirkwall overhead. Casting out the mooring lines to the waiting dock workers, he joined the controlled scramble of the sailors to earn his passage. Although they allowed him little, they stayed the tongues in fear as he took his leave in silence, not of mind to chance the templar's wrath.

Through the dockyard and into Lowtown, Cullen shuffled his way further into the city, the creak and scrape of his armour resonating in the night only to be drowned the pitter-patter rain. His eyes darted left and right in his progress, watchful for the gangs that often plagued the streets. To his fortune, he met with no highways in the poor quarter. Unhindered and unmolested, the Knight-Captain stole into Hightown while another tempest brewed within his mind. Although he had made it that far, it was not too late to turn back, he surmised. Never mind the notion that he had forgone his addiction to pursue this insane endeavour - he could feel his hands begin to shake.

Becoming distracted, he did not notice the first attacker's blade when it sliced towards him.

"Look out!"

The cry went unheard over the din, the ringing clash of steel on steel filling the templar's ears. Snarling, one of the Crimson Weaver Bloodrager's slid the dagger along Cullen's guarding arm and it bit into his mail on the underside of his vambrace. Cullen gritted his teeth as the blade broke the rings of metal and cut into his skin, the blood soaking his armour. Drawing back his fist, he threw a punch at his assailant but missed as the Bloodrager hopped away to seek a new point of attack. He heard the rogue laugh and then scream, a bitter cold sweeping across the templar's face amidst the sheeting rain. With a loud crunch, his assailant fell and Cullen studied the gang member, half-encased in shattered ice alongside his fellows who shared his fate. All around him, the puddles of rain were tinged pink with their blood and the ground glinted with shards of broken ice.

"Are you all right?" A woman's voice drifted over the blood and adrenaline that rushed in the Knight-Captain's ears as he looked up from the rogue's corpse. "I'm sorry; we haven't quite cleared Hightown of that blood mage's brood yet. How bad is that wound? May I take a look?"

Reluctant, Cullen kept her at a distance only to have the drenched hood of his cloak fall from his head.

"Knight-Captain Cullen?"

He did not miss the hint of panic in the Champion's voice as she too took a step backwards. Meeting Marie Hawke's gaze, the templar inclined his head in acknowledge. Opening and closing his fist, he kept the blood flowing in his wounded arm, wondering if he could make it back to the Circle and abandon this manic quest. As he stared at her, his head began to throb with withdrawal and he winced, gritting his teeth against the pain.

"Aye, my lady. Forgive me, but I am at a loss for words at present," he answered as he tore at his wet cloak to staunch the scarlet flood, worsened by the rain. Panting, Cullen plotted his escape. Perchance he could return to his quarters before the Knight-Commander came to disapprove of his absence. After all, it was only a matter of time before he succumbed to his forced condition, the need too great to overcome.

"Come now," Marie assured him, gathering up his injured arm. His armour slipped along her leather mantle and she presented him with what little strength she had. "My home is just yonder, Knight-Captain. Let me take a look at the cut and then you can tell me what you're doing out here in the middle of the night with no shield or a weapon drawn."

Although Cullen knew she risked much by offering him help so openly, who was he to argue with such a strange twist of fate? He licked his lips in anticipation, praying that she could help him in more than just healing a simple injury. Besides, he was certain he would never find the old Amell estate with some guidance, a fact he refused to admit.

"As you wish."

**_To be continued..._**

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> At first, I thought I might do a one-shot... well, I've changed my mind. It'll be a series of short chapters, I think. Overall, it's just another distraction from my other overwhelming works.

Again, I'd like to that my darling Lywinis for being my beta and of course all my readers and the OP.

Any road, here was the prompt: _"__The Chantry uses lyrium to enhance Templar powers - and seems to require some kind of vow of chastity from most of the Templars as well - the unmarried ones at least. What if that's because they know that sexins with a mage would be like giving crack to a coke addict - the high is higher, the powers are stronger, and having had sweet mage love, lyrium just isn't that appealing anymore?_

The Chantry keeps this a deep dark secret because their greatest strength is also their greatest weakness in a major way. From their point of view, creating Superman also creates kryptonite.

Does Cullen need to shag daily in order to keep himself in peak Templar condition? Yes. Yes he does.

Bonus points if Merrill knows about this and just never thought to mention it.


	2. Lyrium Delirium

**More than Addiction**

No one knows, 'tis but a secret. Only between a mage and her templar can there be peace, lyrium and magic their bond. Cullen x F!Hawke

* * *

><p><em>This fan fiction might contain spoilers, canon and also non-canon endeavours and history. In response to a prompt, Knight Captain Cullen is no longer satisfied with just lyrium.<em>

* * *

><p>Author: Illusionary Ennui<p>

Disclaimer: If it's not in the Dragon Age games, codex entries, or the wiki, it's mine. All else, hail to Bioware.

Chapter Word Count: 3,662 (so far)

Chapter Rating: M/E

Chapter Warnings: Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Romance.

Beta: Lywinis

Edited: 09.26.2011- Another minor wording update...

* * *

><p><strong>Part II: Lyrium Delirium<strong>

_Given up, give in_  
><em>One secret for peace and life<em>  
><em>Risk naught, only all<em>

"Pardon me?"

His brow furrowed, Knight-Captain Cullen glanced from the dwarven manservant at his elbow to the swaying hips of the woman disappearing up the stairs in bewilderment.

"Come now, messere," Bodahn Feddic urged, gesturing beyond the foyer. "The mistress has asked for m boy and I to help you out of this armour while she changes. She'll be down in but a moment to take care of that wound. Don't you fret."

"Broken," chimed Sandal as he tugged on Cullen's gauntlet.

"Now, now, Sandal - don't bother the poor man," the elder dwarf warned, directing his son to the task at hand. "If you don't mind, messere, let us have at that plate."

Overwhelmed, the templar could not help but submit to their incessant task. Instead, he focused his distraction, channelled his fading strength to address the fresh wave of nausea churned his stomach and the pounding against his temples. Grimacing his need for lyrium began to crest its peak, Cullen split his concentration to hide his symptoms, not willing to chance discovery so early his quest.

First, his pauldrons were pulled away, the rain-swollen straps undone with diligent fingers. His vambraces and gauntlets soon followed, Cullen wincing when the steel grated against his injure despite the gentle efforts. Next went his breastplate, and he watched it disappear with the younger dwarf and Bodahn's promise of a polishing. Cullen removed his sash, the bases and tassets himself, leaving him in but his mail, the padded gambesons along with his linen undershirt, mostly soaked with his blood and the rain, and leather trews beside his boots. Bodahn then aided him as he shimmed out of the mail tunic and also took his boot before taking his leave.

Left alone, shown to a high-backed armchair before the roaring fire to dry, Cullen pondered the choices before him. Without thought, he slipped a hand into his soaked undershirt to certain to take some comfort in the parchment there, the loose sheaves tied together with twine. Pressing the wet pages to his chest, he prayed the rain had not damaged them too much. As he made to assess the harm, Marie Hawke appeared at his side, a gentle but light hand on his shoulder.

Hazel orbs matched gazes with her glittering brown eyes and Cullen forced himself self to look away. In his mind's eyes, he saw the woman with an odd clarity. The damp hair clinging to her head in long strands, the fine locks of dark chestnut free of their bonds. The freckles lost in the dancing firelight. The way her finery teased him with the hint of pale flesh underneath the silk. Each of these made his heart race at the contact. For her sake, the Knight-Captain kept his face a mask, revealing nothing. It would do him no good to break at the slightest touch.

Nevertheless, as if the Maker conspired against him, the lyrium withdrawal prodded him with mounting pain.

"Knight-Captain?" the mage asked, canting her head with concern.

"I fare well, my lady."

His lie made itself evident on her countenance, her worry morphed into a genuine frown. At her insistence, she begged for his consent, her magic brushing his skin as she made to take up his hand. It set his blood on fire and he followed her with heavy steps up towards her chambers.

Once inside the simple suite, Cullen turned his head to hide his gentleman's flush, unaccustomed to the sight the woman's boudoir so soon in his plan, as Marie's fingers inspected his wound. Whether in response to her magic or that his own addiction proved stronger, whatever hold he held against the flood crumpled in the wake of her touch. Cullen ground his teeth, fighting with what little power he possessed to stem the tide only to succumb. Head throbbing and body aching, he fell to the cold stone floor as he tried to stand, curling in on himself. Every muscle spasmed and shuddered with every uneven breath, sapping his strength and resolve. Unable to weather the storm, the Knight-Captain sank into the blackness...

* * *

><p>Lyrium. Cold and metallic as it danced upon his tongue. Awakened by the taste, his blood sang and only craved more. His eyes refused to open, the lids leaden in his profound state, but he cared not. Only the lyrium mattered. It teased the templar with its power, tingled down his throat. Cullen hungered for the poison, desperate though not knowing from whence it came; even so, he only knew that he desired more. Hunting, his tongue licked at the softness pressed to his lips and ignored the heat bearing down on him as he lapped at the traces of the lyrium. There, it was more potent that he had even tasted, its call assuring him of a ransomed store. His hand rose unbidden to pull the source closer and his tongue prodded against the resisting vessel. A growl rumbled beneath his Adam's apple and he felt the softness yield to him. Entry gained, he delved beyond to taste the lyrium and magic within and drank like babe for his mother's milk from the wellspring of his fortune.<p>

Through his haze, Cullen began to notice the warmth in contrast of the frigid presence of lyrium, a dichotomy of perplexing proportion.

His eyes fluttered open and Cullen gasped, blood rushing to his face. Her lips pressed to his, an empty bottle of lyrium brew clutched in her hand, Marie gazed at the templar before her in wide-eyed bafflement. Cullen sat up in shock, the cooling cloth once resting on his brow falling into his lap. Frozen in astonishment, they stared at one another in silence beyond her hushed words of apology, both flushed. The Knight-Captain's fingers eased their grip on her neck, the silken tresses gliding over the calloused lengths, scarred from his swordsmanship. With a fleeting thought, he fought against the desire to run them through the locks again.

His awareness returned in cruel slowness. Minutes sauntered by before he noticed the palm splayed across his bare chest, the gentle pressure of her hand unable to deter his addiction's wild action. In absent-minded curiosity, the twist of fate that brought him here remembered, he tested his wounded arm to find it healed, the skin unbroken. Her work must have gone unhindered in his unconscious state.

Grown bolder, he chanced a glance about his surroundings to observe the heavy silk coverlet of Marie's bed beneath him, the elegant hangings that spilled over its canopy in simple luxury. The snap and crackle of the fire diverted his attention for only a moment, but he still returned to the woman nestled so close to his side. She smelled of mint and lavender, the bathing oil clinging to her hair and skin. Even in the dim light, dark circles marked the drawn skin below her eyes, more indication of her exhaustion in light of recent events, of her many years in Kirkwall. Above all, like him, her breaths exhaled in stuttering form while her eyes shone with unwelcome stress.

"Forgive me," he began as he prepared his admission with care. "I must -"

The small mage shook her head and held up a hand to stop his words.

"You needn't apologise, serah. I understood your pain and acted accordingly," she said, her gaze refusing to meet his. "But, please tell me - why did you let yourself go so long without the lyrium?"

It did not surprise him that she recognised the cause of his ailment, the addiction bred into him by Chantry's design. Regardless, his mind battled against him with reason and emotion, tore him into two men - the loyal servant of the Order and the man questioning his purpose and his need. Petite hands rested on his larger spans laying across his lap. Her eyes now glowed with compassion tainted by fear as she queried his thinking. In his fever, he spoke of such strange things: of Knight-Commander Meredith's madness, the First Enchanter's worrisome secrets, of the forbidden match. These meant little to her without context as did his rambling about her own self, a frantic yearning for her understanding.

Dark eyes turned towards the pages, those torn from the tome secreted beneath his bed from prying souls. They lay flattened upon a nearby table where they were left to dry before the heat of the fire. A worried look overtook the woman's simple features and Cullen admitted his folly.

"Did you read them?"

Her lip worried between her teeth, Maria offered him no reply save a soundless nod.

Sighing, the Knight-Captain, resolute in his quest and revived by her impassioned remedy, allowed the explanation to tumble from his lips. With care, he voiced his unease in light of the corruption the ranks of his Order, the crimes made in the name of duty and the lies they told themselves. Even with the threat of maleficarum, he understood now that mages are no less human than any man of Thedas. Many feared the darkness in their hearts and that of their fellows, all the while knowing the destruction they might bring to the innocents outside the Circle. Nonetheless, his Order fostered the rift between the templars and the mages, tainted their purpose as they broke the mages beneath their wills. Even now, Cullen regretted his influence, also to blame for the prejudice, his own experiences skewing his outlook.

"Not two days ago, I saw men under my own command berate a young woman, barely sixteen, goading her with the fear of the demons so ready to prey upon a weak mind," he admitted, the memory a festering wound. "At first, I thought it rumours... at least, I wanted them to be. But, now I've seen it with my own eyes and I find it more and more difficult to justify our cause. This can't go on and still the Knight-Commander encourages this disdain towards your kind. By our own hands, we drive many to darker, fouler magic they seem to find with much each in this place and we'll not be able to stand against the tide. I beg of you, help me in this."

Squeezing her fingers, Cullen made his proposition, called upon the secrets hidden in the text of his pages as he stowed away his own trepidation - there was no turning back. No one else could help him in this matter; no one else could be trusted to treat his hope with sincerity. Spurred by the readings, he wished to change the old ways and prompt a greater relationship between the templars and their charges. The Chantry upheld the old tyranny and wronged both sides. Cursing himself, he knew he was fool for believing in their lies - was she not the opposite of their warnings? Did he not deserve his own happiness as she deserved hers?

The mutual benefits, protection for one and power for the other, carried him onwards, deeper into the insanity.

In light of that desire, he proposed an experiment of sorts, an exploration of the balance between a mage's magic and a templar's strength. His explanation was far from thorough, but her reaction solidified her comprehension. It also brought her overwhelming concern, the notion profound.

"Are you mad?" she said and pulled away from him in a fit of indignation. Drawn up, she shifted to pace her bedchamber, torn between the truth of his words and the repercussions of such an endeavour. "Magic isn't like lyrium, Cullen. It's not something you can just harness and expect to control. Lyrium may have poisoned your body, but this would be far worse."

"It's a risk I'm willing to take," he said with a grunt of pain and struggled to rise from the bed. His tone kept firm, he forged into the fray to argue his point, wincing as his headache returned. Even with only that little taste of lyrium, he was still weak. "You are unlike any woman I have ever known, and a mage no less. I do not make this request lightly, my lady. If you would allow me, I would court you as a man does a woman, for you deserve as much if that is your wish. But, mark me, I'm not going to abandon this course. The lyrium alone is not enough to face the storm ahead, not if Meredith continues as she does - there has to be a better way."

"You risk not only your body, but also your mind," she said, stilled on the ornate rug that stretched across the floor as she trembled with dread. "This is madness. It wouldn't be just about peace between the mages and the templars - this is about power. Power and desire."

Her words struck him like lightning and he found himself at a loss.

"I won't deny my undue attraction towards you," he said as gathered up her hands in his own. Kissing the knuckles, he summoned up a charming smile he never thought he possessed. In her company, he felt at ease, far from the awkward lad he used to be even as he felt his skin prickle with heat brought by his confession. "Granted, I'm not without my own troubles, but I find myself enamoured. There's no one else I'd trust for this cannot be done without a bond stronger than mere familiarity."

"You take much on faith, ser knight," Marie said with a frown. However, she did not wrench her hand from his grasp at first. "Even you know that as a mage, I hold little love for your Order. And rightly so, for I fear I'm just in my contempt."

Dropping his hands, Maria turned about and loosened her finery. Cullen felt heat rush to his cheeks as the silken cloth slid off her shoulders to expose her lightly tanned flesh. He swallowed hard with his sudden lust and embarrassment, his simple past a fickle reminder. At once, the lifting sensation of desire vanished as he glimpsed her hidden past. A myriad of scars slashed over and down her ribs from her spine, marred her back with a pattern reminiscent of a bone dragon's wings. The thin, parallel lines, wounds inflicted by the clawed-tips of a templar's gauntlets, taunted him with worse horror as they disappeared beneath the breast bindings and her garments. Her tale was brief, yet it only angered Cullen to hear and witness the evidence of one of his own brothers-in-arms from Ferelden abusing a mage, especially this mage, even with her coerced consent. Stepping forward, he raised hand to trace the pattern, sensed her stiffen at the first stroke and her magic swirled around him in readiness. Her reaction confirmed that she was scarred more than just physically, he concluded with heartfelt compassion. Work-worn fingers lingered on the unwarranted prizes whilst fury burned in the back of his mind. Emboldened by her torment, he kissed her shoulder in sympathy as one hand snaked around her waist to tug her flush to his chest to wrap her in the comfort of his embrace.

"Oh, my dear lady. It's your suffering that shames my Order," he said, reaching to kiss her hand from his place at her shoulder. His lips tingled against the flesh as he drew it to them, her magic tempting him. For her sake, he buried the heady provocation, if only for a moment. Eyes closed, Cullen found himself lost to the memory of Kinloch Hold as his fist clenched in disdain. There, he found himself tortured and broken by the very people he was sworn to protect. At the time, the templar railed against them, not for duty but out of fear. Cullen remembered Knight-Commander Greagoir's attempts to placate him with First Enchanter Irving's pleas to aid him in his cause. Both meant to assure the frustrated young man that not every mage was to blame. Nevertheless, his fervent treatment of his duties made him an outcast among his fellows and the Knight-Commander had no choice but to send him away... into Meredith Stannard's care.

Tempered by Kirkwall's Knight-Commander's rule, he learned well that his own bedlam paled in comparison to what may be brewing behind Meredith cold blue eyes. If only he could save them, douse those fires that bred dissent – the last thing they needed was another broken Circle, innocent murders and chaos.

"Although, I can't apologize on their behalf, I promise I'll do everything I can to make up for this. But, now do you understand? I cannot stand aside any longer. I'll do whatever necessary, seek whatever advantage I can, to make this right."

His ardent speech threatened to sway the mage, but she could not deny the agonizing dismay that loomed over them.

"Please, Marie."

She flinched at the sound of her name and her heart shattered at the impassioned tone only to harden in disparagement at his next hasty words.

"If you allow me, I can protect you against the more -"

He fought for the words, knowing the depths his men would plunge, all in the name of duty and their own depravity.

"- the more fanatical men of the Order. They don't care if you're the Champion - the moment they believe you're a threat, there's nothing to stop them. I may have once shared their zeal, but no more. With me, you would have peace. Even your own companions could share that security. I could even try to dissuade the Knight-Commander from her attacks on the Guard-Captain -"

"You would bribe me, serah, for you own pleasure?" A hissing breath escaped her lips as she spun to face the templar. The insult rang in her ears as she put an end to his rambling. The obscure affection she felt for him forgotten, the proposition seemed unfathomable. Did he truly believe that such suggestions would woo her?

Taken aback, Cullen realized the severity of his claim, so misjudged.

"I never meant it as such. I offered only with sincerest heart," he said, the hurt plain in the timbre of his voice. "The Maker help me, I find myself involved, more than I care to admit. All I ever wanted was to do my duty, but it's become more than that. Kirkwall needs its Champion as do I. Possessed of something beyond reason, I now see you not only as a mage, but as a person and a part of me regrets for having ever once believing otherwise - we share so much, wounds and scars of our pasts and isolation. Would you grant me merit on that alone?"

As if quenched winter's wind, the fire of her wrath sputtered and died. In his eyes, she beheld the truth and the loneliness in the hazel depths. There, she found indisputable warmth for her, not mere lust for the forbidden power she could bring him.

Her fear expelled with her bated breath, she closed her eyes and steadied her nerves.

"Is this what you want?"

Her forlorn enquiry echoed with her timid demeanour and anxiety.

"I admit - I have little experience in these matters," Cullen said, calm as his wandering gaze drifted down the curves of her frame. His mind teased him with creative imaginings of the more complex acts in question, the final step and strongest source. "But I'm not unwilling. My lady, there's no one else I would ask of this, no one else with whom I would place my faith beyond the Maker. If you accept, I shall offer my power, my strength as atonement for the wrongs done against you, should you desire."

His broad palm cupped her chin and gaze into the depths of her dark eyes to seek a silent hope for her approval and pleasure. Though he needed her for the power of her magic, he refused to deny himself the remedy for the loneliness that plagued his heart. It was a desperate wish, but one he could not disregard. After all, she was not his charge, an exception to his _rule_.

They parted and he pressed his forehead to hers in contemplation. Cullen later smiled when he felt one small hand alight on his forearm as the other lay across the one that cradled her jaw. In response, he let his thumb run across her lips and the languid strokes earned him her shiver of anticipation. His gaze then hardened and the Knight-Captain moved to ensure the endeavour with her word of honour.

"I ask only this: the Knight-Commander can never know of this, nor can any of my men. I risk not only my sanity, but both our lives - we risk everything."

This was the reason why the Chantry discouraged such couplings, but the intrigue tantalized them both with hidden longing. Her heart broke at his desire to protect her from his folly as he risked it all for the betterment of their respective peoples. Correct in his assessment, secrecy was indeed their best defence. It would be better with Kirkwall nothing more than a Knight-Captain working with the Champion for the greater good, a templar guarding an apostate loose from the Circle's chains.

Leaning forward, Maria caressed the templar's cheek with a chaste kiss before she stood on her tiptoes. In his ear, her breath hot on the shell, she gave her assent.

"As you wish, ser knight. I shall do my best to keep you from falling, Cullen. But know this: I _will_ stop this if it goes too far."

Her troubled mind warned her that his addiction to lyrium would never compare to the road ahead. In the fear of his safety, his sanity, the mage knew she could never forgive herself for the risk they took, no matter the outcome. Yet, the risk, the sheer chance, meant to more than a simple thought of peace.

Never had she wanted a man so much.

**_To be continued..._**

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Whether or not I really address the prompt is still question... *shrugs* Again, I'm going with whatever comes to mind at this point. There's a story in here... somewhere...

But yes, Cullen is a little OOC right now, but he needs to be - he'll be back to somewhat his old self in the next chapter.

Oh well, I offer my thanks again to Lywinis for being such a lovely inspiration and beta, as well as Minfarshaw. Also, my deepest gratitude to my readers and the OP - this wouldn't exist without you.


	3. Days of Doubt

**More than Addiction**

No one knows, 'tis but a secret. Only between a mage and her templar can there be peace, lyrium and magic their bond. Cullen x F!Hawke

* * *

><p><em>This fan fiction might contain spoilers, canon and also non-canon endeavours and history. In response to a prompt, Knight Captain Cullen is no longer satisfied with just lyrium.<em>

* * *

><p>Author: Illusionary Ennui<p>

Disclaimer: If it's not in the Dragon Age games, codex entries, or the wiki, it's mine. All else, hail to Bioware.

Chapter Word Count: 3,200 (so far)

Chapter Rating: M/E

Chapter Warnings: Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Romance.

Beta: N/A

Edited: 09.26.2011 - Just a few little things...

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><p><strong>Part III: Days of Doubt<strong>

_An uncertainty_  
><em>A taste of danger and life<em>  
><em>More than simple greed<em>

_What am I doing here?_ _How can she be so trusting, so willing?_

Knight-Captain Cullen contemplated the decisions before him as he stared down at the quiet mage awaiting his reply. Dark eyes held him with confusion and the remnants of awakened desire, ignorant of the stain of vomit on her robes - shame wracked him, his addiction far worse than imagined. The templar's lips thinned into a firm line in an effort to deny her questioning gaze and the lingering taste of her mixed with lyrium, tainted by the bitter bile that coated his tongue. Even as he turned his focus to his own folly, the disgrace of his addiction, it was her presence that distracted him from the sickening flavour dominating his senses. Despite it all, he flushed in the feverish wake of something more primal as it clashed with withdrawal, his ears tinged bright red. From within, magic teased every nerve and demanded more, engulfed by the prospect. A delicate whisper of power thrummed at his core, a breath of renewed strength.

_Maker, help me._

So close to the source, a frisson of shock shot down his spine. He asked himself the question again as though the reasoning hovered just beyond his reach. Silence filled the space between them, each lost to one another's own thoughts.

Logic provided him with few answers, each query more pressing than the last. His choice in the champion stemmed from the simple fact that she remained unchained by the Circle, protected by titles and fate. Yet, it must have been something more. Was it admiration? Compassion? Respect? Could it have been the notion of his own loneliness as the burden of duty weighed heavy upon his shoulders? He frowned, buried beneath the storm of concern and reflection. It should not have been so easy to offer his affections, bound as he was to the machinations of his responsibilities and scarred by his past experiences. Had he not promised to never again grow too close to his charge, to distance himself for duty's sake?

The sincere words had rolled with ease from his tongue, not a single thought spared for the repercussions when he spoke.They rang out from instinct, unchecked. Nevertheless, Cullen refused to rein them in, the memory of her astonishment fresh in his mind despite the guilt and bewilderment that plague him.

Once more, he questioned his sanity. _Mages aren't people_, he used to tell himself and the new recruits, untried and unlearned of the dangers ahead. Day after day, duty reminded Cullen of the difficulties with those who abandoned control, who consorted with demons of their own twisted volition - those named maleficar. Some claimed it as a means to an end, but deep down, only will and desire drove them into darkness. He cringed at the slightest recollection, witness to the depths which the most desperate or sinister would plunge. The appalling memories overwhelmed him and he shivered, a light sheen of sweat blossomed down his neck and on his forehead.

Marie Hawke, however, railed against the usage of blood magic, refused to defile her soul with dark promises. A part of him believed her incapable of the same unforgivable atrocities when she herself handed over those of her kind who practiced the forbidden art. Someone truly possessed would not act as such, would they? No, stalwart certainty assured him that she would never fall prey, at least willingly, to a demon's wicked call.

Yet she herself maintained an odd sort of freedom few mages ever realized, her liberty granted only at the mercy of her usefulness. Like him, she was a mere pawn in a gilded cage, blood on her hands as she endeavoured to sustain an unstable balance between the forces arrayed against her. The woman's neutrality aside, her support remained torn between both sides dependent upon the circumstance. Though she favoured her own kind, she treated maleficar the same as any templar would - was she any different than him?

The Knight-Captain recalled the wafer-thin margin he walked between kindness and ruthlessness, a line in the sand toed to the breaking point. Raised in the life, where his once accepted his lot, Cullen wondered about the actions he performed in the name of duty, the blood he spilt. All the personal suffering he spent every waking moment to reconcile became weeping sores. Each in turn exploded into blinding light, magnified by one memory: the woman he had lost, a kindred spirit that he had failed. Burned by the remembrance, he once more worried that maybe, just maybe, she had been right.

Melancholy words echoed in his sorrow-riddled mind, the faded ponderings of a ghost from his past who accepted the necessity of the Order. As a templar, his hallowed role existed to protect not only the people of Thedas from unrestrained magic, but also the mages from themselves. By his hands, his sword had been pledged to watch over them and direct them from the path that would lead them astray, to care for their safety... to care for _her_.

The mere thought of the lost expelled everything else, the sour taste of bile prominent. Naught but inexorable failure and agonizing loss remained, each too much to bear.

A soft, gentle touch to his ruddy cheek drew him from the pit of his buried past and he found himself thrown back into reality. All at once, Cullen's unexpected confidence since his decision to take such a path slipped through his fingers in the wake of his damned memories. The haze of desire lifted, a sense of terror-driven clarity calmed the conflagration that carried him into untested waters. Shaken, he dissolved into a broken man. Standing before Hawke was the hapless, apprehensive templar before the bloodshed of Kinloch Hold. Fear washed over him, unready for the endeavour he himself proposed as another wave of doubt overtook him. Would she reject him? Would it be all for nothing, even matter in the end when he could not even control his own fear and be the man they both needed?

"Cullen?"

Though he admired her concern as she ascertained his sudden discomfort, his head pounded to the point of dizziness while he drowned in depression and suffered from the after-effects of lyrium withdrawal. Her quite call went ignored over the rush of blood against his temples and the frantic tattoo of his heart as it berated his ribs. When she asked him for an explanation, the quivering resonance of worry tainting her voice, he proffered her lies - he cannot tell her, not yet.

In need of an escape, Cullen instead presented her with a courteous bow and begged his leave. Her expression of hurt followed him into the cool Kirkwall evening, the rain slick on the cobblestones that led away from his dishonour.

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><p>The next night found the Knight-Captain on the Champion's doorstep and then at her gracious table. Alone in her chambers, they shared a simple, pleasant meal in near silence, each reluctant to catch the other's errant gaze. Whether in response to trepidation or doubt, neither the Champion nor her guest voiced their concern. Barely a word or three filled the space between them before their repast's end save for an afterthought statement of gratitude.<p>

Cullen broke first under the oppression of the stillness. He shifted his gaze to discover Marie bathed in firelight, the cracked mask of her false pride stripped away. The red-orange glow shadowed in soft lines of her countenance as she cast her eyes down to half-eaten portion of her plate for distraction. Roving eyes studied her frozen form to linger at the hint of skin beneath the silk, tantalizing. Brimming with hesitation, his pulse tripped beneath the tensed muscles of his neck as a chance of daring gripped him. Unbidden, his hand reached across the linen spread to graze his fingers over the back of her hand. The skin twitched at his touch and gooseflesh radiated away from the point of contact as the tingle of magic sparked between them, her ambient energies ever present. It teased and tempted him with the promise of power, strength untouched while it waited to be seized. A tiny gasp of surprise preceded the heated flush that burned across both the mage's cheeks and his own. Her nervous fingers slipped into his clammy palm without provocation and his calloused lengths, shaped by the sword, curled around them. His broad thumb stroked across her knuckles until she grew lax within his grasp, the tension eased. Another jolt of desire set his blood afire when he watched her lick her lips, the lower one worried between her teeth.

The Champion's hooded gaze snapped up to meet his, as unexpected and shocking as snow on a midsummer's day. Taken aback, he stared at her, confounded while he lost himself in their watery depths. A small, sheepish smile spread across Cullen's lips and a vibrant blush betrayed his honour when she tore her eyes away, her query unclear in her mumbling. Repeating her question only served to elevate the strained pressure among them as it hung in the thickened air, charged with her wayward magic and the heady scents of perspiration and concealed arousal. Each laboured breath brought the vapours of magic into his lungs to fuel his need, lyrium forgone in favour of the exchange.

Her sudden shyness baffled him when she asked him if he intended to commence their experiment in its fullness that very night. A mere touch was only a prelude to something greater, more potent. Tonight, it was the ambient magic that teased him, the uncontrolled energies that surrounded any mage, but a taste of the power they could wield. She could give him more and meant to freely. Yet he struggled to accept that promise.

Her hushed, anxious request rocked him and he withdrew his hand from hers as though scalded. The discouraged templar mourned the loss of her magic's steady strength while he lamented the crestfallen expression that marred her visage. It astonished him at how willing she seemed, so ready to please. He measured the expression of sorrow, forged over the many years of pain and loss. Denied more than pleasure, he read the whole of her existence in her countenance: a life dedicated toward the well-being of those around her, whatever the cost.

So naïve, so broken - who was he to take advantage of that without something more than the simple bond they shared? Was it wrong to want and be wanted, to love and be loved, not bound by need?

Cullen forced himself to decline. A wide hand drifted up her arm as he leaned forward and lifted her clenched jaw to meet his gaze. In her eyes, he gathered the truth mirrored in his own - he was not ready to walk this path, nor did he believe that she shared the complete conviction, regardless of the heat that left them wanton. Years of discipline preserved both their virtues for another night as he drew back, dangerously close to stealing an unearned kiss from tremulous, half-parted lips. The briefest touch lit a fire in his belly but he stayed his hands, fisted them at his sides. Through gritted teeth, he bid her a fond good night before he threw himself from her chambers and from the estate.

It was all too much, the moves made too fast.

Tossed about on the stormy seas of his troubling thoughts, the Knight-Captain paid no heed to the motion of the real ship that carried him back to the Gallows. His sickness forgotten in favour of an internal struggle, reservations and uncertainty distracted him all the way to his quarters. The course so ingrained in his mind, his feet never strayed in his uneasiness. Hardened leather boots landed with a heavy step as he disembarked the ship, its captain's eyes and disapproval of the late hour burned into his back. Footsteps sounded a hollow echo through the courtyard, the night guard silent but wary of the returning Knight-Captain. Their stares followed him into the adjacent square and up to the main gate. The gatekeeper recognized his face when he withdrew the hood of his cloak and the hapless guard ushered him into the barracks without further inquiry. A restless chance of investigate assured him that the Knight-Commander had long since sought her bed, no candlelight poured beneath her door - his unapproved absence had not yet risen an alarm. A sigh of relief whistled past his lips as he traipsed across the empty court and up the stairs. The heavy door creaked when he entered the barracks and he slipped inside. Weak torches illuminated his path while they cast long shadows down the corridor, their red-gold light bright in his dark-accustomed eyes.

Luck favoured him in his cautious progress. Not a single lieutenant heeded the indistinct rustle of his arrival, each, those not out on night patrol, sound asleep in the darkness before dawn. Another wave of relief comforted him, his strides steady and quiet until he reached his destination and locked himself away. Safe in the unlit sanctuary of his private rooms at the end of the officers' hall, Cullen sat upon the edge of his modest bed and bowed his head in silent prayer. His heart bared to the Maker, he prayed for guidance in light of the road laid before him, that his actions were born of righteousness rather than simple need. Raised in the life, he knew the truth behind Meredith Stannard's austerity, her troubled past, and often defended her against those who spoke out against her when it was by her hand the worst of the lost were brought to heel. Yet, even now, he wondered which cause he served, the divine purpose of the templars or Meredith's own design. Within his mind, the boundary painted to separate them wavered, an obscure marker between insanity and desperation. He had seen the mark of true madness before, the manic gleam in Uldred's eyes, but the Knight-Commander only hinted that sort of dissoluteness and he prayed that she would not descend to those depths. Perhaps by his hands, he might dissuade his superior from further rashness and tame her paranoia with the Champion's aid.

Though he had once promised himself to never question the purpose of the Order, each day it proved harder not to ignore the rumoured whispers, the pitiful shrieks and unwanted glimpses of something more sinister.

There was always a better way, he swore. Possessed of nothing more than an ideal, Cullen marshalled himself against the threat ahead and asked for strength to overcome his doubts. He kissed the thumbs of his clasped hands as he ended his appeal, consoled by the age old practice. It comforted him, at least for a time.

In the dimness of quarters, he stripped off his clothes while he measured the tightness of his muscles and the stiffness of his joints. A tired eye spared but a glance for the polished armour of his station, the heavy plate glinting in the corner from its stand. A fleeting thought, that for one night Cullen lived free of its shadow, filled him as he lay on the soft mattress of his bunk.

It was not to last. To his dismay, the sweet oblivion of dreams evaded his wounded soul, unable to sleep as old memories sought to consumer him. To expect any different one night out of many was a foolish notion, not after years of suffering. With every set of the sun until its rise, she visited his red-washed nightmares. Bloodied, broken and bruised, her empty eyes haunted him even after he closed them in eternal darkness. Each and every time, he held her lifeless hand and swore that she would be the last. It was that loss that spurred him into focused dedication. From that moment, all personal thought driven into exile, he avowed his might into single-minded servitude... until now.

The broken image of the lost morphed into the Champion at his behest. His imagination formed her into lucid detail and her sad eyes flashed with the same glimmer of lust that he chained away in his mind, the very same they fought to deny. Her enigmatic smile washed away the pain and replaced it with released longing, a wondrous taste of freedom beyond the weight of obligation and origin. Far different from his past, she deserved so much more than half-hearted promises and insincere actions.

_I must be mad_, he imagined with a sigh, _but it seems I am not alone in this._

On the other hand, some piece of him shuddered with hesitation. Cullen dared not to commit himself completely for fear of reprisal. Despite the inherent ache of loss and the acceptance, she proffered support without regard for his position, a nightmare for her kind. Stricken, the templar within rationalized away the infectious indecision before he devised and pursued a remedy for the qualms that denied him the hope of reprieve and gratification.

All her life, people used her and she willingly gave herself to their needs, their causes. If a mage of her circumstance could serve the Maker's children as she did, maybe he was wrong to judge others according to standards set forth by his blood- and magic-stained past. Although she bore the gift since birth, Marie turned her curse toward the betterment of those around her instead of personal gain. All the while, she condemned the abusers of the same mould to contain the threat posed by the reckless – she refused to neither suffer the sins of blood magic nor weather those who sought it. That alone warranted his respect, but it was so much more than that.

Though she shared far too much with another, their memories intertwined, the Champion proved herself worthy time and time again. In her company, he exuded confidence and found some semblance of peace in the comfort of her presence. For her sake and his own, he banished the remains of the rambling mess of a lad from the Fereldan Circle and that of the insecure soldier who once attempted to interrogate the ladies of the Blooming Rose while he tried to ignore their wiles. A part of him owed her a great debt for her gifts: the best of his heart brought to light, the inner strength not stolen through her magic.

But what did he have to offer in return? A thousand thoughts hastened across his mind, a thousand possibilities. As slumber began to welcome him into its embrace, Cullen pressed two fingers to his lips to hold onto the lingering impression of her petal-soft mouth against the most sensitive skin on the entirety of his body. By the time the Fade claimed him, a balance between duty and desire was struck only to be washed away in a flood of anguish and blood.

Until the morning bells woke him, the unchanging, unyielding nightmares tore through his shattered spirit. Each one the same, night after night since that fateful day in the Circle, 'twas the day he watched her die...

**_To be continued..._**

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> All right, I admit that that last chapter was a bit shite, but I hope I've made up for the awkwardness... if only slightly. Fun fact: yes, the skin of your lips is the most sensitive on your entire body - thank you, Nathan Wournos. *sighs* That aside, I'm done setting the scene for the most part - all story from this point save for a flashback, if my notes are to be believed, in the chapter after next... I hope. Even so, I do apologize for taking so long - I'll get this beta'd when I can.


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